Fires of Ered Luin
by z00r0pa
Summary: Thorin might have been a halfway decent uncle in another life. A life where he wasn't a king-in-exile, a life where Smaug had not come.
1. The Fires

**A.N:: So, first things first - apologies for leaving you all in the lurch! The story I was writing before under the same name underwent a complete overhaul with a new plot and characters to boot, hence the sudden call-off. I really hope you enjoy this one as much, if not more than the original! So, here goes! c:**

**All Khuzdul translations at the bottom of the chapter.**

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Fíli wasn't really sure what was happening. One minute, he'd been safely tucked up in the huge straw bed that he and Kíli shared, their mother gently coaxing them to sleep with now-familiar stories of the Lonely Mountain, and now he was being pulled onto a horse with his brother, his father shouting in his ear while pulling a thick, woollen cloak over the both of them.

"Da'-" Fíli wanted him to be quiet, he wanted to go back to bed – his warm bed - and snuggle up in cosy blankets with a fire roaring in the hearth and the musty smell of the mountains in the air.

But his nostrils were filled with the stench of smoke and burning flesh, his young eyes saw red and orange and amber in the flickering lights upon the mountain which was crumbling, breaking off and melting into the grey smoke. He saw floods of Dwarves – families - trying to forge a way through the crowds by any means; kicking and pulling and shoving as they went, faces pale and drawn with unmistakable fear.

Blood-curdling screams pierced sensitive ears and sent a shiver up Fíli's spine. The chilling sound was only drowned out by his own teeth chattering as he began to feel the harsh bite of the winter that was rolling in over Middle-Earth.

Something was wrong. Very wrong.

It took a few moments for Fíli to piece everything together.

There was a fire, and fires meant _ruin_ and _destruction_ (or so he'd heard his Uncle Thorin say) and Fíli did not like the sound of that. Not one bit.

Fíli could smell the coppery tang of blood in the air – he'd come to know it all too well after getting into plenty of sticky situations, namely those involving his brother and the climbing of trees in the orchards – and then he started to make out shapes in the distance. At first, they looked like little more than shadows, but they moved in quick, lethal movements - too quick for the fleeing Dwarves.

Every so often, mangled limbs shot out from the indiscernible blackness, quick as lightning flashes, grabbing onto Dwarves and dragging them into the dark, kicking and screaming, but it was never long before the screams suddenly stopped.

Before Fíli could reach a solid conclusion, however, he felt the rough leather reins being thrust suddenly into his shaking fingers. Unconsciously, Fíli grabbed onto them as though they'd give him some sense of security, some protection from those scary shadows. They didn't, of course.

The beast below him began to move of its own accord, and Fíli wobbled dangerously as he clutched onto his screaming brother, head still swimming with incessant, babbling thoughts that he couldn't quell nor make sense of.

The only thing that broke through that barrage was this sudden _silence._ It was an _empty_ silence. Empty, like something – or someone - was missing. And it was then that he realised he had not seen his Ma' since he was drifting into sleep hours ago, her voice on the edge of his waning awareness with Kíli snuffling and kicking beside him, being the annoying little brother he was meant to be.

"Ma'-?" Fíli blinked, eyes adjusting to the sudden dark as a group of torch-bearers suddenly moved away, not that he'd noticed their presence before, _"_Ma?_ Ma__!"_

His pleas remained unanswered, only amplified by Kíli's panicked cries.

Fíli whimpered, fisting a hand into his blanket as he tried to think. Da' wouldn't have left him alone with Kíli, not like this! He must have been hurt, or... or lost!

In his panic, Fíli only served to upset Kíli even more, and then: "Kíli, Kíli-" Valí appeared suddenly from the dark, reaching for Kíli. He calmed his youngest son with expert words and soothing motions, until Kíli was all but falling asleep in Fíli's arms, at which point Valí met Fíli's frightened stare with his own.

"Fíli! Ride for the halls of Moria, and do not stop. Find your Uncle. You hear me, _inùdoy_? Do not stop. Don't turn around, and don't look back. Don't look back!" Valí reached out and held his eldest son's face between leathered hands, his dark eyes glistened dangerously, but they did not leave Fíli's face.

"_Promise me!"_

Fíli didn't like the way his father's hands shook then, the way his eyes darted to and fro, the way his thin lips trembled and his neat braids unravelled. Faded tear tracks became apparent as dust from the black smoke clung to his father's worn skin, outlining the wear and tear of a lifetime spent in the forges.

"But where's _Ma_'?" Fíli whined, shaking his head free of Valí's grip. It scared him; it was too tight and not comforting in the least.

Valí's reaction to his words scared him more, though. He was sobbing, breaths coming in hard gasps as he struggled to breathe. Shaking hands clutched onto Fíli's own, and Valí said no more.

A sinking feeling settled in Fíli's gut and stayed there, and he felt like he was slipping down a deep, dark hole along with it. All the lights seemed to go out around him, like in his nightmares when he was lost in a gloomy forest somewhere with a gigantic wolf breathing down his neck.

Fíli drew himself up though, despite it all, and pulled his hands out of Valí's grip. As young as he was, Fíli wasn't entirely oblivious to the ways of the world, not with Thorin Oakenshield as his uncle.

And in that moment, he knew exactly where to go. But he knew exactly what he was leaving behind.

Hot tears stung at Fíli's eyes, and he quickly rubbed a rough hand across them, breathing in and wrapping one arm securely around his suddenly-quiet brother in front of him. Nodding, he could barely bring himself to look his Da' in the eye again.

"Promise." Fíli said, his voice unwavering.

Valí's eyes flashed with something akin to pride, then he kissed both his sons on their foreheads, pressed a smooth metal object into Fíli's hand and strapped a small dagger to Fíli's belt. Valí allowed himself one last, long look at both his sons, before stepping back and slapping the horse on the rump, the animal breaking off and forward into a gallop.

Barely a few seconds later, Fíli heard another spine-chilling scream not far behind him. Some small part of him was telling him to keep going, but he did exactly what Valí told him not to, and he looked back.

Fíli saw his Da' then, still looking at him, but he was on the ground now, kneeling where he'd stood. Fíli saw Valí's hands clutching at thin air helplessly, his throat was stained a garish red and rivers of blood snaked down his chest, beginning to pool in the dirt around him. His mouth hung agape, pale eyes unseeing. And then he slumped forward, still and grey as a stone.

Fíli's anguished scream was lost in the sounds of battle, and then he was disappearing into the thick forest that lined the foothills of Ered Luin.

Soon after, Fíli lost track of time and direction. Minutes stretched into hours. East turned into West. The moon became the sun. Mountains became Wilds.

He was lost.

"Fee-.. _Fíli_." He heard a whimper from below him, and looked down to his little brother, held securely in one aching arm that had carried him through the night. It stung Fíli to hear how pathetically weak Kíli sounded, like a frightened pup who'd wandered too far from home.

"Kíli." Fíli breathed, urging his aching legs to nudge the horse on, trying to ignore the huge distance between himself and the ground if he was to fall now, "M'here, Kee-"

"Mama..?" Kíli moaned, the sound caught somewhere between a sob and a whine. Fíli did not answer. What would he say? That their home had likely been burnt to the ground, and that they would never see their mother's brilliant grin or hear their father's rumbling laugh again? That all Kíli's favourite toys had gone up in smoke and there was no hero to save the day like there always had been in the tales that Thorin told them?

No. Hope was lost in the ashes of Ered Luin now, and Fíli could not answer.

So he remained silent for the rest of the day. They did not stop. They did not falter. Fíli did not look back again.

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**Khuzdul: (for most of these words, they loosely translate - I had no Khuzdul boffin on hand, only a dictionary!)**

_inùdoy - _son


	2. Out of Time & Out of Place

**A.N:: Thought I should probably get this one up after I re-read the first one and it seems a bit.. ****_eh_****. I started this way back in January, and my writing has improved since then wow ;_; so yes. **

**Also, Farin's name was a leftover 'draft-name' and I forgot to change it /flings self into the sun/ he's now Valí. Because that sounds cooler. **

**And as per the norm, any Khuzdul is translated at the bottom of the chapter.**

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Days fell into weeks and those weeks quickly stretched into a month.

A month passes slowly, Fíli found, when food is scarce and water mostly frozen in culverts that sliced through cold, dry ground that used to be full of greenery and all manner of creatures. A month passes slowly when you only have a word as your destination, and limited survival skills to fall back upon.

Fíli knew, of course, that they'd need shelter when the weather got bad and that was when they'd sleep. Food could be rationed, and ice could be melted by a fire, which could be made with the right kindling and stones. Direction could be followed by the path the sun hewed through the sky.

But rationing food with a little, hungry brother was not easy, and ice was painful to break with booted feet and bare fingers, and a fire was not always easily made, nor the sun easily followed if the weather turned its back on you.

In the end, it wasn't enough.

Fíli could feel himself wasting away. He'd given most of his food and water to Kíli, afraid that his brother wouldn't survive the journey, and now the harsh winter had begun to set in.

Although he tried to tell himself that Kili needed it more than he did, Fíli was starting to regret giving that little extra piece of rabbit away. Those few berries every so often, and the odd nut here and there.

Fíli pushed on nonetheless, telling himself he'd reach the hillocks residing on the edge of this particular plain and then he'd rest for a little while. He'd reach that little scrub in the distance, and then he'd rest for a shorter while. He'd reach that small rocky outcrop, and then he'd rest for a few minutes. But the markers kept creeping further and further away from Fíli, and rests became precious seconds in which Fíli would slump forward, his chin resting atop Kíli's head, and close his eyes until he saw Valí's pale, gaunt face staring at him from a sea of black, urging him to run. And Fíli would go.

On one cold day in what Fíli assumed was early December, they'd barely stopped. Fíli had found a firmer sense of direction, following the sun that started to fall from its midday peak to the East – the direction of Moria, from what little Fíli could remember from maps that Thorin had shown them.

They'd made it through most of the lands unscathed, and all that stood between them and Moria now was plains; simple and flat land that the horse would fare much better on.

It was only when Kíli had very nearly slipped from Fíli's grip into a spot of craggy, unforgiving ground below that Fíli thought it might be wise to stop and at least regain some of his own strength so that he could keep Kíli safe. If he couldn't do that, then what kind of brother would he be?

Fíli found them shelter under a great oak tree whose trunk curved at just the right angle to provide a comfortable resting place for the brothers. Helping Kíli down from the horse, he told him to stay by this oak until he came back with food and water. Kíli didn't even reply as he crawled over to settle between the protruding roots, and Fíli limped off, disheartened.

At some point along their journey, Fíli had managed to twist his ankle after falling from the horse. He couldn't remember when it had been, exactly – days just blurred and fell into each other with each hour that Fíli pulled them through. Nonetheless, putting any weight on his ankle had caused a fire to spread up his leg which brought him crashing to the ground again, but the pain had receded slightly in the last few hours. Leastways, Fíli could walk if he needed to.

What wasn't so promising, however, was the dark, angry bruise that had flared up his side one day after a particularly nasty fall, its purple claws crawling over his bony shoulder. It tormented Fíli constantly, pulling him from the darkest depths of sleep or hindering his step, making him clumsy when he was trying to trap a hare and leaving the brothers hungry.

Most of the time, Fíli would push it to the back of his mind and he just kept on dragging himself and Kíli through the hours and the days, simply because he had no other choice.

Stumbling upon a cluster of berry bushes, Fíli could hardly believe his luck. At any rate, the berries looked red and juicy and perfectly safe, Fíli thought as he began to gather some, using his tunic as a makeshift carrier. It wouldn't sustain them for long, Fíli knew that, but what _could_ he do? Sit and wait for help? Help was out of their reach now, and it had been since he left the burning mountains.

Scampering back to the oak, he deposited the berries nearby a sleeping Kíli, his shirt now stained red with the juice. Kneeling down, Fíli gently shook and nudged his sleeping brother awake, pointing wordlessly to the hoard he'd gathered. Kíli seemed to perk up almost immediately, making his way to the berries, eager to satisfy the painful, gnawing hunger festering in his belly. Fíli managed to smile for the first time in a little while, although the motion made his face (and now seldom used muscles) ache.

Satisfied that his brother would eat, Fíli limped over to Alsviðr and took out a smooth wooden bowl from the nearly-empty saddlebag. He began to follow the refreshing sound of a brook babbling nearby, hurrying off into the trees. Along the way, Fíli stopped and picked up a small stone, using it to mark the trunks that he passed. He wasn't going that far, but all the same, he'd rather be safe and certain that he was going the right way. He couldn't risk anything happening, not now.

Fíli returned with a bowlful of clear, fresh water. Sitting beside Kíli, he let his brother take the first drink as he always did. When he was content that his brother was fed and watered for the moment, Fíli sat back against the trunk of the oak, glad of the rest. He'd earned it.

Minutes stretched into hours again, and before Fíli knew it, the sun was beginning to set. The warmth at his side told him that Kíli had fallen asleep again at some point, and had tried to get as close to Fíli as possible without actually climbing onto him. Although, Kíli's arm was wrapped firmly around Fíli's middle, so he hadn't been entirely successful. Fíli couldn't help but grin lazily, glad to see Kíli at peace for once.

And oak trees, for some reason, Fíli had always found to be very… familiar.

Fíli allowed time to slip by, until Kíli roused from sleep and promptly whacked him in the face with a poorly aimed stretch. Grumbling, Fíli shoved Kíli's arm off, the quiet laughter from the younger resounding through the empty forest.

"C'mon, Kee. You been 'sleep for _ages_." Fíli pulled himself up, ignoring his sore muscles that were beginning to cry out in fatigue already. He helped Kíli up quickly, finishing off the rest of the water, and they were soon back upon a well-rested horse, Kíli munching on some berries he'd picked up that looked a bit dubious, Fíli thought, but he wasn't going to deny his starving brother.

Letting out a huff of breath, he saw it turn to misty vapour in the cold air before digging his heels into the horse's side with a shiver. Fíli just hoped that they would outrun the cold before it claimed them both.

It was well into the night and barely a few hours from the crack of dawn when Fíli began to feel Kíli slipping out of his grip again, but he'd suddenly grown incredibly heavy and loose and every time that Fíli grabbed onto him, it seemed to make it harder to keep Kíli upright - Fíli felt like it was trying to catch smoke for all the good it was doing.

Looking down, Fíli felt a rush of cold fear as Kíli's head lolled dangerously, falling back onto his own shoulder. His heart almost froze in his chest when he saw the dark red liquid creeping from the corner of Kíli's mouth.

Any rational thought he still had left was now completely gone, and he cried out hoarsely, feeling completely alone in the suddenly vast wilderness.

So when the grey stone of Moria came into view, Fíli was grateful for the surge of adrenalin that gave him the strength to urge his horse into a gallop once more, holding tightly onto Kíli.

"Brother, look. Moria." He didn't even try to stop the weak tears spilling from weary eyes when Kíli did not reply.

The horse, who'd carried them for so far and so long, slowed as he neared the gates with fatigue weighing upon his heavy bones too. Fíli gently pulled the animal to a halt, and that was the last of his strength utterly spent. Fíli's arms were now like lead, and they fell to his sides, reins slipping from his grip. Head swimming, he couldn't see – black edges began to creep in, softening the harsh sun glare. Fili just wanted to _sleep_.

**ooOOOoo**

The horns of Moria had been quiet for some time, so when they sounded on this Durin's Day, Thorin was surprised and a little more than confused.

Rising from his seat in Durin's Watchtower, Thorin followed his assembled council out to the bridge that stretched between the two hastily-built front outposts over the West Gate. He found the sons of Fundin were already on the bridge, eyes squinted against the harsh glare of the pale sun as its weak rays struggled to break through the thick, winter cloud.

"Balin, what is it?" Thorin slipped to Balin's side as his council dissipated into the throng that had gathered below.

"I cannae' see, lad-"

"A mount with young riders." Dwalin answered for his brother, looking from Balin to Thorin with no small amount of concern.

This was certainly odd. Moria was considered dangerous in the eyes of most of Middle-Earth; no-one would willingly ride here without a cause, let alone children. Nor could they accidentally stumble upon it, it was too far out of the way of any major passages through Middle-Earth, which only served to make the matter even more baffling.

Frowning, Thorin turned to carve a way through the gathering crowd, down the stone steps and out towards the arrivals. Dwalin and Balin followed along with a personal guard that Thorin detested, but couldn't really dismiss unless he wanted Balin to deliver a long and difficult lecture with points that had been so well thought out that it was pointless even thinking about arguing.

The group drew nearer to the horse and its riders, and Thorin's eyes caught a flash of steel blue eyes that regarded him with something akin to hostility, but it was hard to tell.

Feeling the hairs standing on the back of his neck at the unexpected look, Thorin averted his gaze, instead noting the features of this boy as he scanned him thoroughly. Dirty, matted hair that had once been golden, judging by the few strands that gleamed in the sun. A young face underneath was hidden underneath all that dirt, Thorin was sure, and those bright blue eyes boring into his own left him feeling oddly nostalgic. They reminded him of someone, and Thorin swore he caught a flash of recognition in the blue.

Then it hit him, like icy water flooding over his shoulders and spurring his grey mind into life.

"Fíli." Thorin breathed, stopping so suddenly that Dwalin had to swerve to avoid crashing into the back of him. Thorin looked down to the figure in front, and sure enough, Fíli's shadow was there, but he was fading fast. The crimson dripping from dry, scarred lips, the bruises, the scrapes – this wasn't right.

Thorin balked, a quiet fear festering beneath his skin and slowing him down. He couldn't think straight. Thoughts ricocheted and ran rampant through the empty caverns of a weary mind, and Thorin could barely string the next two syllables together.

"Kíli!" Thorin called out, expecting some sort of reaction, knowing that he would get none.

"Fíli, what-" the would-be King stepped forward, hand falling from the hilt of his sword, reaching for the broken reins that Fili clutched onto like a lifeline with shaking fingers. With the other hand, Thorin pushed Kili's hair out of his face, careful to avoid the tender looking scrapes. Some kind of pathetic anger burned in his gut; he'd have the man who'd let any harm come to his nephews impaled on a rusty spear and left for dead, but Thorin didn't know who to blame, and that only made it worse.

Alone and exhausted and probably scared out of their wits - what were they doing _here, _of all places? Thorin had left Ered Luin little more than month before, the laughter of the boys following him and his patrol out of the gates.

**oOo**

Somewhere in the distance, Fili heard a familiar voice, questioning and murmuring and being far too loud for his liking, and that was the last thing he heard before he fell from the horse and into darkness.

**oOo**

Dwalin had never seen Thorin move so fast before in his life. Flinging himself forward with lightning reflexes, Thorin stood in a wider stance to brace the sudden added weight and then strong arms were quickly cradling Fíli, Thorin emanating a fierce protectiveness that Dwalin didn't want to test for fear that he'd end up with his head on a plate.

"Dwalin, get Kíli." Thorin's words were harsh; knife-edged and desperate.

Seeing his personal guard scatter at Balin's quiet orders, he looked to Balin, eyes blazing with quiet fury.

"Burn marks," Balin pointed out, gently smoothing the blackened hem of Fíli's cloak, worried lines crinkling around his eyes as he frowned. "I've sent out scouts to Ered Luin."

"Kili- ill." Thorin almost dropped Fíli as he started forward, the voice he'd heard barely more than a whisper. Looking down at Fíli, he saw the boy, eyes clenching tight, as though even whispering was a struggle. "He's ill."

Glancing behind, he saw Kíli securely wrapped in Dwalin's huge arms, a sickly hue to his skin.

The healers can manage that, Thorin thought hopefully.

"Fíli, listen, Fíli-" Thorin met Fíli's empty gaze again as he gave him a gentle nudge, willing him to stay awake, "What happened?"

Fíli winced as he turned his head to the side, muscles freezing up and locking into place. Slowly, Fíli began to turn his head the other way. _No._

"'No'… what?" Thorin gently coaxed, trying to keep Fíli as still as possible. He didn't know the extent of Fíli's injuries yet, and the last thing he wanted to do was make them worse.

"A-_arrâs_." Fíli breathed after a moment, his head falling against Thorin's chest again. _Fires_. That would explain the burn marks.

Thorin didn't want to think on it, but he couldn't help all the possible scenarios flashing through his mind. Dís. Valí. What of them? What fate had been bestowed upon his people in Ered Luin now? Anger, icy and bitter, clawed up through his bones and grew into a fiery haze that clouded his thoughts, and Thorin didn't ask anything else.

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***: Khuzdul: (for most of these words, they loosely translate - I had no Khuzdul boffin on hand, only a dictionary!)**

**arrâs - fires**


	3. Howling Ghosts

**A.N:: I think I'll be able to wrap this first part of the story up pretty soon, then get moving onto the main bulk of the story (i'm going to be typing this story from beyond the grave i stg) where this will have laid the foundations for why the lads are the way they are :P backstories are fab. **

**I hope you enjoy the next few instalments, and I hope you'll stick around for the story. ****Thank you to all who followed/faved and especially to those who reviewed! **

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Fíli's breaths were little more than desperate gasps for life by the time they returned. His head lolled dangerously and his skin was dry and paler than it should ever be, stretched tight across his bones.

"Fíli, the poor lad. He looks awful. Couldn' recognise him, by Aulë!" Thorin heard Dwalin murmuring to Balin, not far behind him. Kíli looked much worse, Thorin added silently, a bitter ache settling in his chest.

Reaching the gates, Thorin ignored the lines of Dwarves who were watching as he walked past. He heard the murmurs from an old Dwarf who he vaguely remembered as Ginnar, and the curious Bofur, then mumbles of sympathy from Gloin and the low hubbub of surprise from most others. A secondary group of Dwarven militia rushed past him – presumably to support the scouting party that Balin was sending out – and then Thorin was disappearing deep into the caves of Moria and to his place of residence within the halls, Dwalin following with Kíli.

For longer than he would've liked, Thorin could do nothing but wait and watch as Óin and some other healers padded around his room and the bed where his two sister-sons lay, the healers muttering and murmuring amongst themselves. With the pressures of the day pressing down on him, it did not take long for the prince to snap.

"What _in the name of Mahal_ is wrong with them?" Thorin slammed his palms down on the oak table when he stood, glowering as the startled faces of the healers turned towards him.

The tension seemed to drape itself around Thorin in the next few seconds, like heavy chains across his shoulders, pulling him down into his seat again, his hand to his brow as though he didn't want to face the stares from the healers.

"Thorin, they are very weak. Exhaustion and starvation in bodies so young has extreme repercussions, you know this. Their hearts beat only faintly now, and Kíli has certainly been poisoned, most likely by some leaf or fruit. I suspect a mild concussion for Fíli too; it seems he got a nasty blow to the head when he hit your shoulder." Óin said after a few moments.

Thorin winced at that, berating himself for being so careless.

He was vaguely aware of the healer continuing his diagnosis, though Óin's usual slow, calm and collected manner only served to aggravate Thorin – did he not care? Óin moved away from the bed, dismissing the other healers as he did. Adjusting his ear-trumpet, he continued again, despite the fact that Thorin looked about ready to throttle him.

"I don't know how long it has been-"

"_Long enough_." Thorin growled, reaching up to rub his forehead, as if that would alleviate some of the stress, and if Óin saw him rubbing hastily at his eyes too, he didn't say anything.

Óin merely glanced at the prince before continuing.

"I can put together something for the poison to help it clear, but other than that.." Óin trailed off as Thorin stood and turned abruptly on his heel, only to pace back and forth a few strides and end up staring down at his oaken desk again, leaning heavily upon it.

"They would be incredibly lucky if they were to survive the night, Thorin. I am sorry." The healer bowed his head as he spoke, before dismissing himself and leaving Thorin alone.

Thorin was glad of that, because no-one needed to see the future King uttering every curse under the sun in his raging fury. They especially didn't need to see Thorin shedding tears for his lost sister-sons as he knelt to the floor, keeling over seemingly from the weight of the world on his shoulders.

He did not know how long he'd stayed like that, but it was well past evening and deep into the night that Thorin woke from his uncomfortable and unexpected slumber on the cold stone floor. Groaning, he pulled himself up, muscles protesting. The events of the day then came flooding back to him, as welcome as a bucket of icy cold water in the face, and he was immediately at Fíli and Kíli's bedside.

Settling himself in a nearby chair, Thorin felt weak and exhausted, like he'd been after Azanulbizar. Not just physically, but mentally too. The prospect of losing his sister-sons seemed quite likely, and not too far in the future either. It was something he didn't want to think upon, but no matter what he did, he always ended up in that grey space between reality and expectations – they'd wake up, he expected. The reality was that they were barely breathing.

After a while though, drowsiness started to muffle his thoughts, although he kept his eyes wide open and simply watched, making sure that Fíli and Kíli were still breathing, still hanging on. He felt as though if he let his eyelids so much as drift shut, Fíli and Kíli would simply stop.

From then on, Thorin lost track of time as minutes plunged into hours and hours plunged into days. The dwarf lords of Moria did not see hide nor hair of him for several days, and only the healers made regular trips to his room to attend to the children that Thorin vehemently refused to give up on. The prince had seldom strayed from his room where the sleeping boys still lay, motionless and still as though in death but for the shaky rise and fall of their chests.

**ooOOOoo**

Thorin stood by the small opening – a former arrow-hole – in the rock face of his bleak room in Moria. It let in only the smallest stream of light, the room was otherwise lit by flaming torches in intricate, iron-wrought sconces along the walls. His mind was as far away as Erebor, lost in its halls and passageways as he waited.

Thorin didn't know why he was waiting. He wasn't quite sure what he was waiting for either. Was he waiting to be greeted with the smiling faces of his sister-sons or was he waiting until the only person breathing in the room was himself? A morbid thought indeed, he grimaced, glancing over to the children in question.

They should be awake and laughing, splashing in the burns that flowed through Ered Luin, getting each other into all kinds of mischief. Not lying here, dead to the world with ashen faces and all manner of cuts and scrapes that Thorin couldn't even begin to count.

Thorin frowned, mulling the thought over. _Why would Dís send them out here alone? She wouldn't, of course. Valí, then? Were they lost? Or trying to escape something? A raid-_

The abrupt knock at his door startled him from his thoughts and upon a habit, he glanced over to the bed that the boys still lay in, just in the same state as they'd been in half an hour ago, Thorin noted with inevitable disappointment. Of course, Thorin knew there was little hope left. But the chances of survival had been slim three days ago, yet here they lay, still breathing, still alive.

Sighing, he stood and bid the visitor to enter. The visitor turned out to be Balin, and it wasn't until the smell of honey roasted ham flitted to his nostrils that Thorin even realised he was hungry. Even then, it took Balin a while to persuade Thorin to sit down and eat something '_before you fade away and leave me with your bloody taxes to sort out!'_ Eventually, it was safe to say Thorin was glad of the meal Balin had brought up from the halls where the miners and craftsmen were dining after a hard day's work.

So while Thorin ate, Balin simply rattled off a list of things that Thorin could only assume were more duties to be upheld and more taxes to sort and _more_ _bloody inconveniences _than Thorin would like to be dealing with right now. He hadn't noticed Balin had stopped until the dwarf was stood in front of him, beady eyes regarding him with a degree of uncertainty that Thorin had come to expect of the few dwarves he'd spoken to in the past few days, as if they were treading on eggshells around him. Thorin couldn't help but sigh in ill-disguised exasperation.

He knew he had a nasty temper when provoked, and he also knew that days of suppressed ire and irritation had to be released somehow, and he wouldn't be surprised if it happened to be a perfectly innocent dwarf who incited his wrath.

Even so, when every dwarf looked at him as though he'd sprouted another head, it was, to a considerable degree, _incredibly_ irritating.

Drawing himself up, Thorin let out a sharp breath and met Balin's gaze.

"Thank you, _bâhel_." he spoke with gentle honesty, the room quiet again save for the sounds of Fíli and Kíli's quiet, fluttering breaths. Balin simply gave him a nod and a tight smile that didn't quite reach his eyes before turning on his heel to leave. As he reached the solid oak of the door, Balin stopped.

"Maybe you should have Óin put them out of their misery, laddie. "

By the time Thorin looked up, the door was shut and Balin was gone.

And a good thing too, because for all the days that Thorin had willed himself not to snap, not to break his act, to keep his head level and his feet planted firmly on solid ground, he was _allowed_ one slip up now. His hands found the nearest object – a pewter goblet – and he flung it against the door after Balin in a fit of rage, closely followed by the small oak table and its contents and his furious roar that echoed through the wooden cracks and down the stony passageways and to the ears of Balin and Dwalin.

"There are reasons he has no sons of his own," Dwalin muttered, "His ire is too great, his temper too fierce and his patience too little. Should the young'uns survive, what is he to do? Raise them?"

"Valid points, brother," Balin emerged from the passageway, light from the flames flickering across his weathered face as he sat on a bench, propped against the rocky cavern wall, "But at the very least, it is Thorin. They are his kin, and he would not abandon them."

"They're only wee lads too. And Thorin needs an heir." Gloin's disembodied voice joined the conversation, and he himself emerged a few moments later, leaning upon his ax after sparing a wary glance out of the arrow slats in Durin's Watchtower, where they stood.

The hour grew late, and dwarf-guards were on constant patrol since the arrival of Fíli and Kíli. If something had happened at Ered Luin, an isolated dwarf territory where no-one wandered of their own accord, then danger could just as well find Moria.

"What are you suggesting, Master Gloin?" Dwalin grunted, turning to look at the newcomer with a shrewd glare.

"Well, it won't do those lads no good to be raised without a father figure, aye?" Gloin replied, shifting uncomfortably under Dwalin's unrelenting gaze.

"Hah! Y-" Dwalin barked, about to reply with a suitably scathing comment before Balin interrupted loudly.

"Let us find out what happened first, before we decide what should be done, even if the matter lies not in our own hands." Balin's voice was clipped and his words were tinged with sarcasm – a careful reminder that Thorin alone should and would be responsible for his own decisions, not they.

* * *

**I've always imagined the Dwarves would have quite a hardy outlook on illness, i.e if they're suffering and it's not going to end soon, give them a hefty sleeping draught and let them pass to the Halls in peace. Even for children as young as the lads are, they'd rather see them pass in peace than suffer, so I hope that clears up any questions about that particular notion! :)**

**_ Khuzdul: (for most of these words, they loosely translate - I had no Khuzdul boffin on hand (nor do I claim to be one), only a dictionary!)_**

**_ bâhel - _****friend**


	4. Cold Hearts

Thorin sat, slumped, against the wooden door. He had to find something to do before he really did do some damage, he thought as he picked up the apple that had sat upon the oaken table before he'd flung it in his fit.

But not right now.

Right now, he was content with listening to the scorns and mutters of displeasure of the Dwarves wandering Moria, heading to their dwellings for the night. Mostly pertaining to his poor leadership, of course.

Thorin sighed, dropping the apple and watching it roll away from him until it hit the foot of the bed his sister-sons lay upon with a quiet thud.

It had not been so long ago that Erebor was taken by the fire-drake from the North, and then Azanulbizar, the death of his grandfather and his Frerin, then Thrain's disappearance, and now word had got out of a creature in the deep; a demon lurking in the shadows. It seemed like a never-ending string of bad luck.

And it was Thorin who bore the brunt of it. His people were expecting him to sort it out, to bring them a new life of peace and prosperity and security. But how?

At first, Thorin had set his eyes upon Ered Luin, but the mountains were too expansive and hostile, and only some of the dwarves of Erebor would make their home there. Even so, Thorin managed to persuade Dís to settle in Ered Luin – she was heavily pregnant at the time, and the two ended up at loggerheads after Thorin had, in Dis' opinion, _expressed his concerns_ one too many times.

And so Thorin continued to search.

The Iron Hills were too far to the East, too close to Smaug and the fear that drove them away in the first place, and Dain wasn't the most hospitable dwarf. Thorin had had enough trouble with Dain being, quite frankly, a glorified _bastard_ of a cousin, and he certainly didn't need to be scrutinised and scorned by Dain's clan either – Thorin's own dignity could ill-afford it, not to mention the rest of the Dwarves of Erebor.

The Grey Mountains were occupied by the Khiduz. Thorin had dealt enough with them to last him a lifetime. He would rather suffer through all the ages of this world with his people than turn to _them_.

In the end, the Dwarves of Erebor travelled from village to village through the Bree-land and the South Downs, with some working the forges and toy-makers flitting from market to market to keep them all going, and they'd grown tired of it. A once prosperous race being forced to work like dogs for Men? Many would rather have fallen to Smaug, and they made no secret of their distaste for this new life.

In an attempt to restore some sense of dignity to pitiful lives, Thorin had sought to return to Moria in his father's stead. At the very least, they could stay a while to mine the valuable veins of mithril and build up their weakened forces again.

But Thorin knew the dangers of Moria. He knew what lurked in the shadows, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

Desperation would force his hand, whichever path he took.

He'd taken as many precautions as he could. No living soul was to venture past the Chamber of Mazarbul, and that was as far as he'd scouted before turning back, not wanting to disturb the demon in the deep. The tunnels and cave-corridors were shut at nightfall, and nobody was allowed to wander. There were constant patrols on the West Gate and through Durin's Way as well as sentries posted in practically every doorway; every entrance and exit, every _possible_ way a Dwarf might be able to find him or herself outside the relative safety of the long-halls and forges.

He told himself he was doing the right thing, of course. Thorin hated restricting his people so much, but he could not – would not - take that risk.

He knew a rabble of piteous guards was not going to hold against the beast. Mahal, nothing _would_. So all Thorin could do was hope that they could take what they needed and be gone.

The Bridge had been left to crumble, undisturbed ever since the Dwarves of _Khazad_-_dûm_ had awoken Durin's Bane so long ago. To make the same mistake again would undoubtedly be fatal.

**ooOOOoo**

After a little while, Thorin pulled himself up and began to clear up the upshot of his rage earlier. There wasn't much he _could_ fix – the door would just have to remain dented and scuffed and the table, broken – so he simply began to pile everything he'd upturned into one corner of the room, mumbling to himself that he'd sort it out tomorrow.

It was then that he noticed the eerie silence.

There was no raspy breathing, no stuttering gasps that he'd come to expect. Nothing save for his own breaths, and then the sudden clatter of the cutlery and shards of the broken plates he had in his hands as he dropped them, fear clenching an icy hand around his already-cold heart.

"Fíli? Kíli?" His words came out as little more than a helpless whisper, disappearing under his heavy footsteps that were deafening in the silence of the bleak room.

Everything that happened then seemed to be little more than a blur when Thorin recalled it. Fíli's eyes shot open, brilliant steel against pale grey skin, and his chest convulsed with the effort of taking in as much air as he could in those few seconds, and then he was looking up at Thorin, blinking and wide-eyed.

Thorin let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

To say he was relieved would have been a _terrible_ understatement.

The hand around his heart crumbled, and he sucked in a ragged breath, slumping forward, hands flat on the mattress, thanking Mahal profusely in mumbles of Khuzdul and Westron, the words melding into one another. The steel blue of Fíli's gaze went right through him, and Thorin struggled to string together coherent sounds as he blinked rapidly, eyes flickering across his young nephew's face as though he couldn't quite work out what just happened. In all honesty, he didn't have a bloody clue.

Thorin did, however, realise that Fíli was alive and kicking. Literally.

Thorin just managed to catch the boy's legs when they tangled themselves in the furs as Fíli tried to scramble away.

"Fíli?" Thorin searched out Fíli's gaze, not surprised to see that Fíli looked a little more than confused, but Thorin would explain everything later. Right now, he just wanted to know that Fíli was okay. Or at least, a little better than he looked – he still had a sickly, grey hue to his taut skin and his altogether too-scrawny limbs flailed uselessly in his attempts at freedom.

But Fíli kicked and scrambed and pulled and punched, wanting to get away from this strange place and the strange voices and the strange smells. He couldn't remember the Dwarf in front of him who was trying to hold him still, couldn't remember the gravelly voice that belonged to him. His sight began to blur at the edges the more he moved, and then he felt the weight of the older Dwarf's arms disappear suddenly. Then he heard a sound like thunder ripping through the room and deep into his chest, and Fíli stopped.

Fíli saw the Dwarf was looming over the bed, face cast in shadow as the flames flickered violently in their sconces, like a gust had swept through the room suddenly. He was breathing heavily too, as though he'd just been raging.

Fíli felt himself cower back into the bed, suddenly fearing this strange Dwarf. There was something about him that triggered some distant memory in the back of Fíli's mind, but he couldn't quite bring it to light. The Dwarf slumped his shoulders and relaxed his stance then, making himself look smaller and letting the light fall over his face again. He breathed out slowly, as if he was frustrated and trying to regain some semblance of control.

He'd seen Da do that a lot, especially when Kíli was having a bad day where he simply would not stop nagging and-

Da.

Da was gone.

He'd felt sad before, when Kíli had accidentally broken his favourite wooden sword, or when Ma' was shouting at him for being bad, or when he'd seen Uncle Thorin sitting by the hearth alone, looking miserable as though no joy could pierce his heart.

But this was a different kind of sad. It hurt! It weighed him down and settled in the pit of his belly and made his chest ache and he couldn't _breathe_ and speed of his thoughts was only matched by the rapid beating of his heart that felt like it was going to hammer its way out of his ribcage and then he heard his Da speaking and-

_-Moria. Find your Uncle_.

This was Thorin, of course it was. How could he forget _Thorin_, of all people?

They were here, they were safe. He didn't need to get up and find food or water, or pick up his brother with aching arms, or run around on a bad foot, or _anything_. The sudden reprieve was overwhelming, and Fíli let out a strangled sob, crashing back onto the soft mattress as he felt his chest heaving and tears spilling.

And then Thorin was suddenly at his side again, concerned eyes boring into his own as he sobbed relentlessly, unable to stop. Hiccoughing and choking, Fíli desperately tried to tell him everything, feeling all his mental barriers dissolve under his Uncle's gaze, but words failed him completely.

Suddenly, he was being held by familiar arms and Fíli was glad of the shoulder he could bury his face into, the musty smell of mountains filling his nostrils and grounding him. His world seemed to stop spinning, and he concentrated on his breathing, in and out, over and over, until hysterical sobs were reduced to sniffles.

Fíli refused to move, even when his cries subsided. The mountain smell and the rumble of Thorin's chest as he spoke, the strong embrace - they were all comforts that Fíli found himself craving ever since he left Ered Luin, and he was loathe to let them go so quickly.

Thorin let it be, shifting himself onto the bed instead of awkwardly trying to balance Fíli and keep himself upright whilst half-kneeling on the floor. It was widely known that Dwarves didn't possess excellent balancing skills in the least, and Thorin wasn't going to test that. He stretched his legs out on the mattress, arms folding around Fíli in familiar, practised motions as he settled for holding Fíli until he calmed down. It wasn't like there was much Thorin could do otherwise, seeing as Fíli had simply attached himself to his side after his recent outburst, and Thorin drifted off in thought instead to while away the time.

There was something deeply unsettling about Fíli's reaction, and Thorin was hard pressed to work out _why_. Why had they come?

"Fíli?" Thorin asked after a long while, half-convinced that the boy had fallen asleep. He was a little relieved when Fíli turned his head to look up at him, albeit with frightened eyes.

"What happened?" There was little point in making small talk, when there were more pressing matters to sort out, Thorin thought.

No reply.

"Fíli, I have to know." Thorin pressed, his patience already running thin.

Fíli stirred, and met Thorin's gaze again. Still upset and frightened, but there was anger in those young eyes too. He looked bitter; he looked hostile again, like when Thorin had first seen him outside the gates.

"There was a fire." Fíli said after a moment, "Roaring red, e'rywhere."

"Was it a raid? Orcs?"

"Orcs. I think…" Fíli's voice trailed off weakly, as though he felt like he should say no more, but with an encouraging nod from Thorin, Fíli found himself spilling more words than he could keep track of. He was soon flowing into sentences that formed vivid descriptions for Thorin, and that, in turn, began to lay the foundations of a story that Thorin could follow.

"Da' told us to go, " Fíli's voice, already hoarse from his cries, dropped to little more than a whisper, "And Ma'… she never said goodbye an'.. an' then they took Da' too and then we ran an'-"

"_What_?" Thorin almost dropped Fíli, sure that he'd heard the boy wrong.

Dís couldn't be- not _his_ Dís.

"They couldn' do anything!" Fíli scrambled out of Thorin's grip to face him, his little hands fisted tight in Thorin's tunic as though pleading him to believe the words that tumbled from his lips. Lips that began to quiver again when Thorin looked at his nephew with such a furious glare, that Fíli was sure he'd be stone cold dead if looks could kill.

* * *

**A.N: No Khuzdul in this chapter as far as I know! I hope you enjoy, and now I'm gonna watch Eurovision christ I HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS**


	5. Zirikhab

**A.N: Here it is! The last chapter of this particular part of this epic that I've suddenly ended up writing. It's a bit of a monster compared to the previous 1-2k chapters, but I couldn't split it up! No Khuzdul here apart from the title which means 'to hope', so no translations needed here afaik.**

**I hope you enjoy, and I'd love to hear your thoughts so any reviews would be fab~ **

* * *

Thorin felt numb.

Not the kind of numb where he'd simply been sitting in the same place for far too long, or when Kíli had fallen asleep on his leg after he'd read a story to them. No, that was nice, and warm, and, as much as he'd deny it, entirely comfortable.

This was the kind that was harsh, and wholly unexpected, as though winter had suddenly invaded his bones. Thorin was frozen in place, eyes locked on the boy who was tugging at his shirt, crying and whimpering. Thorin was vaguely aware of words flying past his ears that were ringing with a faraway echo of _never said goodbye._

This was happening, it was real. The evidence was right in front of his eyes. Thorin couldn't deny this, couldn't disprove this. And that only served to make the matter even worse.

After a moment, he finally registered Fíli tugging on his shirt-sleeves, calling his name. Thorin couldn't bring himself to look at the boy, however, no matter how much Fíli begged and pleaded, because guilt was beginning to bubble up inside him, clawing its way up his chest and sticking in his throat like tar. How could Fíli come to him, of all people, after what he'd done?

Ered Luin had seemed so safe, faraway and secluded. Orcs would give up the trail as soon as they hit the hills of the Shire, Thorin had thought. There was no gold to plunder and no resources to loot. His people were living in famine and poverty, and any riches they once owned were now part of a dragon's hoard. There was little reason to follow them.

Clearly, he'd been too confident that day.

Breaking Fíli's grip on his arms, he pushed Fíli away and back onto the bed, and then he stood; his face a mask of stony determination.

This was all the kindling Thorin needed. The Dwarves had been sitting quietly for far too long.

A tiny voice in the back of his mind was breaking through the haze of red anger, telling him to stop and think.

But he'd done enough thinking.

**oOo**

Fíli shrank back onto the bed, towards Kíli. His arms stung where Thorin had shoved him away. He'd never seen Thorin act like that before. Fíli could see he was shaking and he kept clenching his fists over and over again, and Fíli was sure he could hear teeth grinding together, letting slip words in a language that he didn't understand.

Then, with a nasty jolt of realisation that surged through his fingertips where he'd placed a hand over Kíli's own, Fíli felt no rise and fall of his brother's chest.

Fíli's scream was enough to break through to Thorin, who turned wildly, eyes wide and lips curled into a snarl of retribution, but then his expression fell into one of confusion, and then realisation.

"_Stay here!_" was all Fíli heard before he heard a door slam shut.

Instinct kicked in, and Fíli just wanted to keep his little brother safe. He moved closer to Kíli, his hand reaching out to brush a few dark strands of wild hair out of Kíli's face. He looked like he was only sleeping, Fíli thought as he carried on smoothing his brother's untameable mane, as though that would keep his ragged breathing going. He took to carding his shaking fingers through Kíli's hair soon after, attempting to work out the tangles and knots, nonsensical mumbling spilling from his lips all the while as he tried to ignore the darkness looming over the both of them.

_This isn't supposed to happen! Kíli's meant to be getting better now, not worse!_ Fíli thought, looking around wildly, as if he was looking for something he could do to help. But the darkness of the room seemed just as hopeless as everything else, and it seemed to grow by the second. There was nothing he _could_ do, Fíli realised with a breathless sob, and he shrunk back onto the cold bed again, laying there in cold shivers besides his even colder brother, wishing for the night to end.

**ooOOOoo**

Thorin was deep down in the tunnels, the labyrinths of Moria, running with an air of wild, blind panic about him and a torch in one hand to shed some light on the darkened passages.

His thoughts were all over the place, colliding and ricocheting around in a haze of panic. Thorin tried to regain some control and he forced himself to think properly, _now_, while he had the time.

Fíli was awake and coherent now which was a good sign, Thorin began hopefully, but Kíli was completely unresponsive and his breathing was beginning to falter. He'd told Fíli to stay with Kíli, and now he could only hope he'd be able to find Óin – it was late, most of the tunnels were shut and most dwarves were sleeping.

Thorin had wanted a medical wing set up somewhere, but Moria proved to be too foreign and desolate after years of abandonment for any kind of efficient set-up bar the necessities of mining-works, forges and long-halls. Most of the dwarves who travelled with Thorin had simply chosen to camp outside or find shelter on the mountain's unforgiving terrain, refusing to set foot inside the cursed mines. And now Thorin was beginning to regret not putting his foot down on that particular issue – thisbloodypassagewayseemed to go on forever, full of nasty ruts and hidden potholes that could trip up even the most steady-footed dwarf.

Turning the corner to the main long-hall, he pushed the heavy doors open and burst in with an increasing sense of urgency about him – the kind that immediately silenced a room. The familiar faces of Óin, Gloin, Dwalin, Dori and Bofur stared back at him with matching expressions of confusion, illuminated by the soft glow of the torches along the walls.

Surprised, but relieved at the prospect of not having to spend an age navigating the labyrinths of Moria that he'd yet to familiarise himself with to find Óin, Thorin wasted no time.

"Óin! Come quickly, please!" Thorin didn't even offer an explanation, just a seldom seen look of unbridled fear that put the small gathering on edge. Fear was not an emotion portrayed by someone like Thorin in the company of others, even those known to him.

_Especially_ not those known to him.

"What is it, lad?" Óin stood, squinting in the darkness as he moved away from the torches, but Thorin was already rushing back the way he came, not sparing another glance over his shoulder.

**ooOOOoo**

Óin pottered about Kíli's bedside, muttering and mumbling much as he had done before, only this time it was a little more frantic. Kíli was slipping into a nasty fever, his breathing was becoming increasingly laboured and from what little information they could divulge from Fíli, he'd definitely eaten something toxic.

"Fíli, how do you feel? Honestly." Thorin was sitting with his elder nephew on the stone floor beside a roaring hearth, keeping an eye on Kíli while Óin went to and fro. "You look a bit worse for wear, and that's puttin' it lightly."

Fíli just shook his head, eyes downcast and red rimmed. He'd been crying for an age after he'd returned with Oín, and Thorin didn't have the faintest idea of what to do until Balin showed up, conveniently, and had Fíli poring over a book of old tales about Durin's folk instead.

At least he was easily distracted, Thorin mused, deciding to put that fact away for future use. He'd been too distracted himself to keep Fíli away from disturbing Oín; the guilt from earlier was beginning to force its way back up again. Although, the scare that Kíli had given him had been enough to make him think, and listen to the rational side of his mind that was saying: _Don't be rash, look after living first and worry about the dead later._

And that was reason enough, Thorin admitted. If Valí and Dís were truly gone, and a bitter ache settled deep in his chest at the notion, then the best that he could do for the moment was make sure Fíli and Kíli were kept safe.

But now, Thorin noted with alarm, Fíli looked on the verge of tears again. Thorin chose to sit in awkward silence, not expecting an answer from the boy after that.

"M'hungry."

Surprised that Fíli had even responded at all, Thorin felt the corners of his mouth tug upwards into something that wasn't quite a smile, but it wasn't far off. _That_, at least, he could do something about.

Fíli then tried to pull himself up, unsuccessfully. The boy grimaced and made a noise of annoyance as he flopped back down, matted locks of grubby hair settling in his face. Thorin dropped his hands from his temple and held out a strong arm for Fíli to grab on to, using his other hand to gently push Fíli's back so that the boy was standing upright.

"Th-thank you." Fíli blinked, still holding onto Thorin, almost like he was afraid to let go. After a moment, Fíli turned – almost instinctively – to seek out Kíli, who wasn't there next to him, but on the bed still. His shoulders sagged in barely-masked disappointment.

Thorin made a noise of disapproval as he felt Fíli's ribs sticking out crudely when he turned, his leathered hand still holding Fíli upright. Fíli looked at Thorin, brow furrowed in question.

"How long has it been since you had a proper meal, lad?" Thorin asked gingerly, eyes now taking in the rawboned, haggard appearance of his nephew, dirt across his face and neck (although they'd attempted to clean them up, it hadn't very successful, largely due to the fact that Fíli was not easily parted from his sickly brother) and a copious amount of scrapes and scratches disappearing under the ragged tunic he wore. He looked like he belonged in the streets of a filthy harbour town, not in the halls of Moria.

When Fíli tried to pull away, Thorin's concern only grew and his grip tightened. The boy's tunic was pulled askew, revealing a furious bruise, its angry purple claws spreading across his bony shoulder.

"Óin!" Thorin barked suddenly, ignoring Fíli's frantic pleas as the initial shock left him reeling slightly, eyes widening as they took in every other little bruise or nick on his pale skin. How had he kept so quiet?

Fíli defiantly turned and wrenched himself out of Thorin's grip, stumbling to one knee on the cold, stone floor with a gasp of pain, expecting some kind of retribution from Thorin. When none came, he gingerly looked up, only to see Thorin gazing down at him with concern in those familiar eyes.

"Fíli."

Fíli didn't respond. Thorin expected as much. He chose to ignore the path the conversation had taken for the sake of the boy, lest he stop talking altogether, and returned to his earlier worry. Fíli was clearly starving.

"Come, you need to eat. Óin will look after your brother." Thorin signed in rapid Iglishmêk _'later' _to the healer, who'd paused, half-stride, as he'd already started to make his way over to Fíli. Óin nodded, returning to Kíli's bedside, but not before sparing a glance at Fíli's shoulder, eyebrows knitted and mouth turned down in concern.

Thorin looked back down at Fíli, who was still kneeling, head bent and sniffling softly. He was obviously trying not to cry, and the sight only made Thorin uneasy. He wasn't used to feeling so _useless._

Thorin grimaced, and pushed the thought aside. He'd learn. It didn't look like he had much choice either way, not if Dís was-

_Stop._ Thorin caught himself. His thoughts would quickly turn dangerous if left to run their course, Thorin knew. He had to let it loom over him like a dark, heavy cloud for the time being, _because these boys are your priority now, you old fool,_ he reminded himself.

Crouching down to Fíli's level, Thorin tucked a finger under his chin, forcing Fíli to look at him.

"I'm sorry, lad." Thorin's harsh glare softened in an instant and his voice dropped to a low murmur. Fíli blinked up at him, and the tiniest smile flickered across his face for a second, and then it was gone. Thorin breathed a sigh of relief. At least Fíli wasn't absolutely terrified of him. Yet.

"Let's eat, hm?" Thorin was eager to get this exchange back on course, with no more dramatics. Mahal, he'd had enough of them for one day. And Fíli needed to eat.

Standing, Thorin turned towards the door, half-expecting (or rather, hoping) Fíli would do the same.

He wasn't, however, expecting the blank stare that Fíli gave him instead. His way of saying _no_, Thorin remembered from days that felt like years past now, when they were only a matter of weeks behind him.

"You will do no good for your brother if you're weak and starving." Thorin grunted, patience dwindling and his sour mood returning rapidly at Fíli's blatant disobedience, even if it _was_ entirely called for under the circumstances.

"M'nt hungry." Fíli mumbled, and Thorin was vaguely aware of Oín watching them quietly as he wrung out a wet cloth to place on Kíli's forehead. The thought quickly flitted to the back of his mind as Thorin was faced with the terrifying prospect of having to try and convince Fíli to do something he didn't want to do.

By _Aulë_, he could manage a city full of tax-dodgers and thieves and all manners of mind-numbingly complex issues and state affairs, but Fíli was _lethal_. This, he'd learnt when the boy was barely knee-high.

"That's not what you said a few minutes ago, Fíli."

The tides turned in Thorin's favour, however, and the telltale rumbling of Fíli's stomach soon saw him following Thorin down the gloom of the tunnels, tripping and stumbling on aching legs as they disappeared into the dark.

**oOo**

The way was long and gloomy and dangerous, and Fíli was _sick_ of the dark. He felt sick to the belly with gnawing hunger, his arms were heavy and useless at his sides, his feet were numb and his legs just ached and _ached_, and it just got _worse_ every time he hit a protruding rock or a loose stone.

At least he was here with Thorin, Fíli thought, but the faint glimmer of hope was quickly lost as Fíli hit yet another stone and felt his entire body give out, scattering the thoughts like ashes. His arms instinctively reached out to grab onto the nearest thing, which just so happened to be Thorin's hand, and Fíli cried out miserably. The fire shooting up his injured leg had returned and, no matter how much he tried to get back on his feet, Fíli couldn't stand.

He felt his cheeks burning with the sting of humiliation, and refused to look up at his uncle. He'd already cried for an age and used Thorin as a personal security blanket, and now he was falling over and clinging onto his uncle like a silly little boy again.

Mahal, Thorin probably thought he was a complete _baby_ by now.

**oOo**

Thorin stopped, alarmed at the sudden contact. He turned and saw Fíli kneeling, eyes clenched as though blinking back tears and his cold, clammy hand holding onto Thorin's own in an iron grip.

It was then that Thorin realised, with a sinking feeling settling deep in his gut, that Fíli hadn't eaten in days, he was weak and tired and Thorin was making him walk the freezing passageways in almost complete darkness; the ruts and pebbles were countless and capable of inflicting some damage.

The feeling of being completely and utterly useless quickly returned, and Thorin thought, with a sense of hopelessness, that they shouldn't have come here at all. He could offer them nothing but a cold and lonely existence in these forsaken mines, and that was not the life they deserved. But a part of him couldn't bear to see them go elsewhere. They were his sister-sons, sons of Durin, and he would be loath to give them up so quickly.

He had to _try_.

"Fíli?" Thorin put the torch aside in an empty sconce, crouching down and taking Fíli's small hand into both of his own.

Mahal, what was he _doing_? Thorin thought to himself. He didn't know how to deal with children, even if they were his own nephews. Dís was always the one who-

Thorin shut his eyes tight, regretting his thought almost immediately as a fresh wave of desperation rolled through him, chilling him to the bone.

He had to get Fíli talking. Properly. Garbled words and half-finished sentences were not going to satisfy Thorin – he needed to know _exactly_ what had happened.

And if his little sister was truly gone, then he told himself that he would cross that bridge when he came to it.

Even if knew he wouldn't.

When no reply came from Fíli, Thorin grumbled to himself for what felt like the hundredth time that evening, cursed himself for his complete inability to deal with children, and slipped an arm under Fíli's knees and one around his back, pulling him up and carrying him the rest of the way, ignoring Fíli's protests.

And he had to admire Fíli's utter stubbornness because by the time they reached the great hall, Thorin had some truly majestic bruises starting to bloom thanks to Fíli's relentless booting, and the boy was now striding behind him clumsily, adamant that he was able to walk _perfectly fine_ and didn't need to be carried _anywhere_ by _anyone_ (although if he'd held onto Thorin's hand for most of the way, he didn't mention it).

So Thorin looked a bit worse for wear upon entering the great hall again, and he was greeted again by the faces from before (minus Óin) who all perked up at the sight of Fíli marching behind Thorin, although some curious glances were spared when they saw that Fíli was holding onto Thorin's hand still.

"Go and sit with them, Fíli, while I find you some food." Thorin said to Fíli, who reluctantly let go of his hand, but didn't move. He chose instead to stare at the group like a deer caught in the eyes of a hunting party, the fire in his leg dying down as quickly as it had ignited.

"Go." Thorin gave him a gentle nudge in the right direction, Fíli looking over his shoulder at him with the same doe-eyed stare that he always seemed to put on when Thorin asked him to do something he didn't want to do.

"Don't _argue_ with me." Thorin rumbled, an eyebrow raising at Fíli's insolence.

"M'nt saying nothing." Fíli responded quietly, and Thorin swore he caught the familiar glint of mischief in his nephew's eyes that he'd been so used to seeing in Frerin all those years ago.

And before he could even open his mouth to reprimand the boy, Fíli was limping over to the long-table where the Dwarves were sitting.

"Lad, how'ya?" Dwalin was the first to speak up. Having been there when Thorin had found him, he couldn't quite scrape the image from his mind of the half-dead boy, like a ragdoll in Thorin's arms.

Fíli shrugged and looked down upon reaching the table, wringing his hands together and chewing on his lip.

"Been better." Fíli spoke eventually, meeting Dwalin's gaze. His Da' would've clipped him around the head by now for being such a baby, Fíli thought. He lifted his head, jutting his chin forward slightly, putting on a front with a practised air about him, as if he'd been through the motions plenty of times before. Dwalin half-suspected that wasn't far from the truth.

"I know you have, lad. Don't you remember me?"

"I-" Fíli looked at him, brow scrunching with the effort of finding some long-lost memory of the Dwarf sitting beside him, "Yeah, you.. ye came down with Uncle Thorin on tha' patrol."

Dwalin sat back, the answer seeming to satisfy him, much to Fíli's relief. That had been a stab in the dark, for Fíli realised with some niggling feeling of apprehension, that he could barely scrape together a memory of half the faces sat around this table, but he knew he'd seen them all before.

Thorin returned, sharing a dubious glance with Dwalin before setting down a bowl of piping hot oatmeal and honey in front of Fíli with a dull thud, sitting on the bench next to him.

Fíli remained silent after that, choosing instead to pick up the spoon and plough his way through the food as though he hadn't eaten in months, ignoring the fact that the hot oatmeal was burning his tongue and making his throat feel like sandpaper.

Thorin looked around at the group, noting some confused glances passed between himself and Fíli by some miners that he knew as Dori and Nori. Brothers, probably. He wasn't sure – they didn't _look_ like brothers. At any rate, Thorin decided he should probably enlighten them somewhat. Fíli was a new face for many around these parts and understandably so; news of Durin heirs was not something people spread like wildfire, because Durin heirs were hunted. By Men, by Orcs and Goblins, by anyone who served some alliance with the Khiduz Dwarves or the Pale Orc.

But they couldn't find them if there was no trace of them, the Dwarves had said, and that was how it went.

"My nephew." Thorin murmured to Dori, who nodded once in recognition, leaning over to mumble the information to Nori.

"D'ye think you can tell them what happened, Fíli?" Thorin pressed, turning his attentions to Fíli.

"Mhm." Fíli paused, mid-way through raising his spoon to his mouth again.

No. He didn't want to think about it, he didn't want to talk about it.

Glancing up at Thorin, he kept silent and simply took in the increasingly familiar features of his Uncle. The shorn beard, the scarred face, the intense eyes that were so like his Ma's that he felt loosely-guarded words slip from his mouth, and then fully formed sentences, and then he was talking.

Thorin listened, working out Fíli's speech oddities and filling in the gaps as he went. It was simple, a child's story, but inlaid with a painful innocence that had Thorin perched on the edge of the bench, white-hot fury flowing through his veins as the tale unfolded in all the wrong ways yet again.

_This was no fire_, Thorin kneaded the table with worn knuckles, staring dead ahead and devoid of all emotion, _this was definitely a raid. An Orc raid_.

It took a moment to realise that Fíli had stopped suddenly, eyes wide and unseeing, as though in another world entirely.

His last words of, _"Da' set the horse off, then-"_ were left hanging in the air, every Dwarf expecting some conclusion to the sentence.

"Fíli?" Thorin searched out Fíli's gaze, but that seemed all but lost to the world.

"I wan' go see Kíli." Fíli looked down, away from Thorin, completely disregarding his question. Pushing his bowl away from him, he mumbled: "M'tired." and got to his feet.

"Fíli, wait. You can hardly walk!" Thorin growled unintentionally, poorly-disguised anger already beginning to seep into his words. He was doing well. Why stop so suddenly? Thorin couldn't work it out as he glanced around the table. It must have been something, a memory of something that had stopped him. A mental block.

Fíli turned to face Thorin again.

"Well, c'mon then."

"And who raised you to talk back likethat?" Thorin stood abruptly, patience waning dangerously.

"Lad's exhausted - just let 'im go easy, aye, Thorin?" Dwalin reasoned, although the slight frown he wore suggested that there was something behind his words other than outright concern for Fíli.

"Why don't you eat? Mahal knows you've not eaten properly for days. Or slept, for that matter. I'll take Fíli back, and find out how Óin goes." Dwalin added in a tone that left no room for negotiation, getting to his feet and clapping a solid hand on his friend's shoulder. Thorin sat back down with a grunt and nodded his thanks to Bofur, the miner from the West, who wordlessly passed him a mug of strong ale as Dwalin left with Fíli.

"Why are you lot awake at this hour anyway?" Thorin huffed, glancing around the table, noticing that they were armed to the teeth. He was greeted with various mumbles and shrugs, and the noise of shuffling feet and clinking metal as some got to their feet and made to leave.

"I meant nothing by it- it was a mere question." Thorin added wryly, bringing the mug to his lips.

"Patrols. Seems the nights are getting longer and the fires are getting colder." Bofur replied cryptically, his words lacking in their usual humour, "There's somethin' headed our way, and it ain't a good thing either."

"I know." Thorin nodded in acknowledgement, a serious demeanour surrounding him once more. "That's why I've been thinking-" he trailed off, bringing the mug back down onto the table with a dull thud. Rising, he met the expectant gazes of the remaining dwarves.

"I have a plan, but I don't think you'll like it. Any of you." Thorin managed a grim smile at that, before finishing his pint and striding out of the long-hall, leaving expectations hanging in the air behind him.

**oOo**

Thorin despised the passageways of Moria. Not only were they unreasonably cramped and difficult to navigate, years of ruin had left the rock to crumble and wear away and leave minute chasms streaking through the dolomite bedrock. Chasms and ruts, Thorin was reminded as he stumbled into the walls of the passageway for what was not the first time, that were fairly capable of tripping Dwarves up.

But after a few more minutes of stumbling blindly through almost complete darkness after forgoing a torch, thinking there was more chance of him setting himself alight than getting anywhere with it, he finally reached the place he'd been looking for.

At first glance, it was a simple chamber.

Upon closer inspection, it had been dug out of the rock; everything in it had been meticulously carved by bare Dwarf hands. The designs. The runes. The columns and the arches, remarkably geometric in design, all equidistance from each other. The smooth walls, worn down into clean lines and sharp angles after years of refining. The single stone table, carved out of the ground, in the absolute centre of the chamber, hexagonal in shape.

Nothing was out of place.

Thorin liked this room, for two reasons.

The first reason was that it had _purpose_, and structure. It had the work of his people etched into every little stone, as a true reflection of the skill of the Dwarves. It was a memory of the Dwarves, although long-lost, deep within the desolate mines of Moria. It was still here.

The second reason, Thorin mused, lighting a torch that was waiting in a sconce nearby, was that it seemed oddly fitting as a place for him to seek a way out of the predicament that Durin's Folk had found themselves in.

It was here; surrounded by the ancient power of his people that Thorin felt a little surer about the plan he had in mind.

Reaching inside his coat, he took out an old, positively ancient looking map that was yellowed and torn and ink splotched, and placed it flat on the stone table, smoothing out the crinkled folds with gentle fingers.

The flames cast enough of a gloomy light across the map to illuminate the drawings.

Running a finger over the fading lines, Thorin couldn't help the wan smile as he read the description aloud to the room full of ghosts.

"_Erebor_."

**ooOOOoo**

When Thorin returned to his room later that night, he was glad to see Kíli breathing a little easier.

"He woke, not long after you left," Óin had said, "But his fever is quite high."

"It could've been worse." Thorin grunted, sweeping his dishevelled hair out of his face. Óin simply nodded, pressing a cool, damp cloth on Kíli's forehead to cool him down.

"Aye. He should pull through, this little one – the poison will clear out if you keep giving him that-" the older dwarf tilted his head towards a vial that held a clear liquid that looked harmless, although Thorin was glad that it wasn't he who had to take it after the foul odour reached his nostrils.

"Fíli just needs to rest. Although, I daresay that'll be a challenge in itself." The healer smiled fondly, glad to see Thorin's mouth quirk into something that could almost be considered a smile.

"Thank you, Óin. I can do that, now. You deserve your rest, friend." Thorin set the vial back down after inspecting it (and discovering the unpleasant odour). Óin nodded his head once before packing up his satchel and leaving Thorin with strict orders for Kíli to drink the remedy little and often, whenever he could manage.

"Kee's gon' be okay now, isn't he?" Fíli sat up as soon as Óin left, startling Thorin who'd thought the boy had been asleep. So much for peace.

"Mhm." Thorin managed a nod and tight smile, but nothing more. Raising hope was a path doomed to failure, and Thorin knew better than to inflict that upon his nephew. So he just continued dipping the cloth into cool water and wringing it out before placing it on Kíli's forehead as Óin had been doing, until the boy stopped snuffling and seemed to drift into a more peaceful slumber.

"You should rest, Fíli." Thorin turned his attention to his eldest nephew as he felt the mattress dip behind him with the weight of the boy.

"I've slept 'nough." Fíli said simply, peering over Thorin's shoulder at his sleeping brother, steel eyes drawn tight and lips pressed together in grim determination.

It was in that cloud of steely determination that had shrouded Fíli then that Thorin saw a future, a spark of hope for his people. And Mahal knows that his people needed some glimmer of hope as the way grew dark and the reliance of his people grew thin. It would not be long before they turned tail and fled.

He couldn't quite explain it, but it was _there_. Thorin, in all honesty, felt a little silly for considering the notion; after all, Fíli was barely ten. Just a boy, and he would be for a while yet. To dress him up in armour and lay all those expectations on his young shoulders would simply rob him of his childhood, and Thorin knew what that would do to people. He saw what it did to his Frerin. And that was a price he would not pay again.

Nonetheless, Fíli'd already shown the makings of a remarkable prince indeed. Escaping from an Orc raid, leaving his family for a world he knew nothing of. A month on his own in the wilderness with a little brother to care for, and he'd survived against all odds. _The little lion of Durin_, Thorin thought to himself with a barely-there smile. No, they'd be alright. _The both of them,_ Thorin added, looking over to Kíli's sleeping form.

Looking back to Fíli, who for all intents and purposes was standing over Kíli like a lonely sentry, Thorin found that he simply didn't have the heart to tell him to go and sleep.


End file.
